


Forget Me Not

by Cheezey



Category: DarkWing Duck - Fandom
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheezey/pseuds/Cheezey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over a year after the events in "Beauty and the Beet" take place, Rhoda Dendron's past comes back to haunt her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is AU to all of my other Darkwing Duck stories aside from _Thankless Season_.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Dr. Dendron. I still can't believe they're moving you to a new office," the cheerful student, a curly-haired duck named Maddie, told the distracted scientist as they lifted files from one of her desk drawers into the moving box on top of it.

Rhoda smiled at the girl; Maddie was one of the work-study students she particularly liked working with. She was always friendly and upbeat, and rarely complained about being asked to do the non-academic or scientific tasks that were a part of university research. It was mid-June, so the school was emptier than usual with only summer students around. Maddie was between her junior and senior years, earning work-study credits for her major in biology and minor in food science. She had chosen to work in the botanical and food sciences department due to their ongoing research in the genetic engineering of fruits and vegetables. It was a project that Rhoda had been participating in for months and one that was the basis for a paper she had recently published that had gotten her the promotion Maddie was talking about.

"I'm surprised, too. My desk has been in this room for almost three years. It'll be so nice to have an office that's right off one of the labs rather than halfway down the hall from my bench work. And to think that when I moved in here, I thought this was an upgrade." A rueful smile formed on her bill. "You should've seen it when I first came in here. There were four researchers crammed into this office sharing desk space with one floating desk for interns and students. At least with just me and Warbrin in here, and you students when we've got one of you, I have more than three drawers for myself."

"I'm surprised Dean Tightwad let you have it without sharing it with how he is about," she lowered her tone in a mockery of the dean's voice, 'an efficient use of resources and space.'"

"That's Tight _bill_ , you know," Rhoda chided with a hint of a smirk. "The man really has no sense of humor, so I doubt he'd appreciate your nickname if he heard it."

Maddie giggled. "Don't blame me, blame Dr. Aveshine," she said, naming the other researcher that sat with Rhoda. "That's what he called him the other day when he couldn't get the labeling printer to work right. He said if he'd been allowed to buy the model he wanted, he wouldn't have to spend half a day screwing with it or make me to label his flats by hand when it didn't work."

"Well, Warbrin says quite a few things he shouldn't. No one ever said that scientists were a model for social skills."

"Or fashion. Did you check out those neon socks he had on the other day? Ug-ly with a capital 'ugh!' I bet he was a huge dork in high school."

Rhoda let out a light laugh. "Most of us here were."

"Nah, I bet you weren't. I wasn't, either. Not a big one like my brother, anyway. He used to play Demons and Dragonfighters all the time after school, and went out in costume with his friends sometimes. Oh, I was so embarrassed if I was seen with him."

Rhoda shook her head a bit at Maddie's remarks and moved on to sorting the things on her desk while Maddie reached into the top cubby above one of the unoccupied desks. Like every other spot in the small office, it had been claimed as overflow by either Rhoda or her office-mate Dr. Warbrin Aveshine. Maddie's beak twitched a little when she noticed the substantial layer of dust inside, and when she pulled out a stack of file folders and binders, she paused to wipe the dust that had stirred out of her eyes. "Yuck. Don't you two ever dust?" She set the dusty pile down with a loud thud. "This has last year's date on it," she said, glancing at the folder on top.

"Don't throw it out; it might need to be archived. You know the rules, raw data—"

"Has to be saved," she finished for her. "No problem. I'll box it… after I dust it."

"Thanks." Rhoda examined the contents of one of her drawers, trying to decide if there was anything that should be tossed rather than moved. "I think there's some of that air in a can over on Warbrin's desk."

"Wow, someone's got a bunch of notebooks here," Maddie said suddenly, and when Rhoda looked over, she saw her holding a stack of university-issued lab research notebooks. "Are these all yours?"

"I don't know. How many are there? I have a few older ones that're full that I still need for reference on the Cucumis melo project."

Maddie brought them over to Rhoda, who set her moving box aside to look at them. "There are four."

"Four? That's odd. I know I don't have that many." Rhoda took the stack that Maddie handed her and looked them over. "These three are mine, but I don't recognize that number," she said, handing the fourth back to Maddie. "See if it's Warbrin's and if it is, put it on his desk."

While Rhoda briefly flipped through one of her notebooks before putting it in the moving box, Maddie opened the one in her hands. "This says it belongs to," the student's voice took on a startled tone as she read the name aloud, "Reginald Bushroot."

Rhoda froze in her swivel chair and her heart skipped a beat. She looked up at Maddie, who stared back at her as though she was, for a change, at a loss for words. That did not last long, however.

"Is that the same Reginald Bushroot that—"

"Yes." Rhoda's voice took on a distinct edge and an awkward silence filled the office. Everyone in St. Canard knew about the mutant plant-duck super-villain called Bushroot, and just about everyone at St. Canard University knew that he was an alumnus of and had been a researcher at the university. What he had done to Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson, what he had attempted to do to Dean Tightbill, and of course, his abduction of Rhoda Dendron herself had happened recently enough that many students, including Maddie, had been at the university at the time the scandal broke. The sordid tale was all the juicier with the involvement of the mysterious Darkwing Duck, and it was still Urban Legend Number One on campus. However, most were either polite enough to not or simply did not have the nerve to broach the subject with Rhoda herself. Maddie had never done so before because she did not want to be rude or jeopardize her grades over gossip, although she did have friends begging her to find out "the real deal" ever since she started working with Rhoda.

"Sorry," Maddie said quietly. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's all right."

Maddie opened the notebook. At a glance, there was nothing unusual in it; notes about chloroplasts, plasma, and different plant species, along with some observations, measurements, and various formulas that were too advanced for a student like her to understand. "Heh. Neat handwriting for a super-villain," she murmured. When Rhoda gave her a sharper-than-usual look a moment later, though, she snapped the notebook shut, her curiosity snuffed by the non-verbal reproach. "Um, so what do we do with this? Archive it? Is that what they did with his stuff?" She made a puzzled face. "I wonder how it got in with yours."

"Things are always getting lost in the shuffle around here. It probably got mixed up with some of my things and then got moved with them at some point." Rhoda stared at the notebook for a long moment. "Let me have it." When Maddie handed it to her she did not open it, but instead sat back down in her chair with a tired look. "Honestly, I don't know what they did with Reginald's things. Everything was already cleaned out and remodeled when I got back."

Rhoda felt Maddie's gaze on her, so she elaborated. "I took leave for a month after all that happened. I was due some vacation anyway, and it was as good a time as any, with all the… with all the ghosts around." A quizzical look crossed Maddie's features, but Rhoda cut her off before she could say anything. "Not _real_ ghosts. Those stories about Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson's ghosts in the building or that silly one about them being the hedges planted outside are just ridiculous," she said with a shake of her head. "I mean the memories of everything. I had to get away from it and I was glad that it was all gone when I came back. Changed, redone, a fresh start."

"Yeah, I can see why. And I never believed that stupid story about the scientists being planted anyway. How morbid. Frat boys come up with the dumbest things to scare freshmen and get drunk girls to go home with them." She rolled her eyes. "Sad thing is, sometimes it works."

With the notebook still in her hands, Rhoda stood up and glanced at the clock. "Speaking of which, it's after four and it's Friday anyway. Why don't you take off early and get a head start on your weekend? You must have something fun planned tonight anyway, right?"

Maddie made a sarcastic face. "Technically. I'm hanging out with my boyfriend, but he and his roommate rented a couple of the Exterminator movies, so we're just watching them and getting pizza, and beer if they can get one of their friends to buy it."

Rhoda's beak wrinkled a bit in distaste. "Oh, I've never cared for most of those action-type movies."

"Me neither, but the guy who plays the Exterminator is kinda hot, so maybe it won't be a complete wash." Maddie grinned.

"Well, I hope it won't be a total loss then. Have a nice weekend." Rhoda gave her a smile before glancing down at Dr. Bushroot's notebook. "I need to ask the dean about this anyway, and if he asks I'll just tell him you came in early so he credits you for staying until five."

"Cool! Thanks. Are you sure you don't need the help moving?"

Rhoda shook her head. "They aren't showing up until ten on Monday anyway, and Warbrin should be around then. I'll draft him into helping; he owes me a favor for holding his nuts on my lab tables anyway." She frowned as she finished the sentence; she had meant the potted nut trees he had been grafting in his research, but her words had not come out quite right. Fortunately Maddie did not remark on it, but Rhoda was fairly sure she saw her suppress a snicker.

"Okay. See you then." Maddie set what she had been holding down and headed for the door. "Have a good weekend, Dr. Dendron!"

"You too." After the door clicked shut behind her, Rhoda was left alone in the office with her thoughts. Her gaze fell on the notebook that once belonged to Reginald Bushroot. An inner voice warned her to not think too much about it and told her she should just leave everything in the past like she had been trying to do ever since it all happened. Her curiosity got the better of her, though, and she only held out for a minute before she succumbed to the temptation to look inside it.

When she opened the notebook she was flooded with memories. She saw the same things that Maddie had seen, the calculations, notes, and formulas. Unlike Maddie, though, Rhoda understood them and immediately recognized the experiments they pertained to: chloroplast infusion into animal cellular tissues. The early experiments had all been done in-vitro, and later some had been run with mice, but the initial results had proven inconclusive. Rhoda felt a shudder as she read his note about that, knowing what she did now about where his research would ultimately lead. _Infusion numbers inconsistent as per statistical analysis report.(1) No clear overall relationship, but significant percentage of subjects with high metabolic tolerance. Recommend further investigation in specific test systems, advanced species, alternate methods of administration._

Rhoda frowned. "Somehow I don't think lightning on a greenhouse rooftop is what they'd have approved." She browsed some more, feeling both impressed and disturbed by what she read. The research itself was sound, and she found herself remembering how she defended Dr. Bushroot to Dean Tightbill the day that Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson set him up and got the funding on his project pulled for their own competitive purposes. Now, over a year later, it seemed almost a shame to see Reginald Bushroot's notebook and the scientific knowledge therein condemned to a fate of obscurity in archives because of the irrational and emotionally driven reactions of its bitter researcher. Rhoda imagined that perhaps years later someone else, someone more balanced, could find it and put it to the use she was sure Dr. Bushroot had intended when he first envisioned it. Someone much like she remembered him to be before he lost it, before he changed…

The loud tick of the clock alerted her that it was now ten minutes to five, and it snapped her back into reality and out of her contemplative silence. "That'll be for Dean Tightbill to worry about," she decided aloud, and hurried to his office in the hopes of catching him before he left. She found the dean standing by his desk with his briefcase open upon it as he got ready to leave for the weekend. "Dean Tightbill," Rhoda called in softly from the doorway, "do you have a minute?"

The short duck looked over at her and nodded. "Yes. Come in. What can I do for you, Dr. Dendron?"

She entered and lingered beside one of the chairs in front of his desk. "I need to talk to you about something."

One of his bushy eyebrows rose when he noticed her halting tone. "Nothing's happened with your research, I hope?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. That's all fine."

The dean relaxed. "Oh, good. I'd hate to hear you were having setbacks. Your genetic research in the Cucumis melo project has gone a great way toward putting the university's botanical sciences division back into the realm of respectability and prestige. Your enhanced honeydew hybrids are creating a buzz among the journals as well as the pollinators."

Rhoda could not help but smile at the praise, although his remark about the department's reputation made her dread changing the subject to what she had come to discuss. Dean Tightbill remained true to his name on more than the department's budgetary allotments; he did not like gossip or scandal and considered Dr. Reginald Bushroot a taboo topic. "Thank you," she started, but before she could say anything else, the dean interrupted.

"You're very welcome. I've been busy, but I fully intend to get up to that greenhouse with you soon and get a good look at your fine melons!"

"Uh… sure." That time the questionable phrasing was not Rhoda's, but she was certain that it did not sound right. Of course, the dean was not the type to make or even notice such crude innuendos, but he did not spend all day in the lab with college students, either.

"So what's on your mind then?" asked Dean Tightbill. "Your office move?"

"No, although it's something that came up during the move. While we were packing downstairs, we found this in one of the office desks." She held out the notebook. "It's not one of mine or Dr. Aveshine's. It's—it's Dr. Bushroot's."

The dean recoiled from the notebook as if Rhoda had thrust a handful of rank manure fertilizer in his face. "What was _that_ doing there?"

"I don't know. I guess it must've been missed or mixed in with some of my things when the labs were cleared out after… after everything happened."

"Ah. Yes, that's right, you were out at the time, weren't you? I guess I shouldn't be surprised that some things were overlooked without one of the lab staff supervising." His voice took on a distinct coldness, although Rhoda did not think it was directed at her. At the time Dean Tightbill had been sympathetic and understanding because Bushroot had targeted him also, albeit with different intentions.

"Anyway, I just want to make sure this goes where it's supposed to."

With a frown, the dean ripped the notebook out of Rhoda's hands and threw it into the wastebasket. "That's where it belongs, along with anything else of that loon's you find."

Rhoda gasped. "But you can't just throw that out!" She bent over and pulled it out of the trash bin. "It's raw data. Regardless of whose it is, it should be archived. That's our standard operating procedure."

"SOPs be damned, Dr. Dendron! Some things are better left to sensible judgment!"

"But it's still valid research," Rhoda protested. "Science isn't about destroying knowledge; it's about expanding it."

"You won't archive anything of that monster's in this department as long as I'm heading it, and that's final! I'd hate to think someone of your intelligence would question the judgment of the entire university board on the matter." He frowned. "And if you did, I'd have to question your judgment, and then mine in my confidence in you in as far as giving you that promotion." He eyed her sharply, but then lowered his voice to a less threatening tone. "You've got a brilliant mind, Dr. Dendron, but you're a bit idealistic at times. While that's an admirable trait, it'd do you good to remember that the same researcher's work you're trying to save for posterity is exactly what led him to abduct and try to mutate you in his greenhouse, and mulch me in my own office. It's not just me that thinks Reginald Bushroot's name is something that's best forgotten from this campus forever. The board was unanimous in their agreement to purge his work from our archives."

Rhoda's eyes widened with shock behind her glasses. "You're saying you threw out _everything_ of his?" Regardless of what Bushroot had done, she could not fathom deliberately destroying so much work and research.

"You asked where his notebooks belonged, and I told you." Dean Tightbill closed his briefcase with an authoritative snap, and then picked it up. "Now if you'll excuse me, Dr. Dendron, it is five o'clock, and it's Friday. I'm leaving for the weekend. I suggest you do the same."

"But what about this?" She tightened her fingers around the notebook's binding. "You can't just put a research notebook in the trash can! Even the cleaning staff knows they're not supposed to be thrown out."

"No. I suppose you're right. Take it straight to the dumpster, then. No one'll fish it out of there before it hits the landfill! Or shred, burn it, even bury it for all I care," he said with a shrug. "It doesn't matter, as long as it disappears and can't ever turn up and be associated with this department or St. Canard University." He ushered Rhoda out of his office along with him, locking the door behind them both. "I'll see you Monday, Dr. Dendron. Good night."

"Good night." Rhoda remained in the hall while the dean departed, and looked down at the notebook again. _It wouldn't be right to just throw it out. All knowledge is valuable…_

She drummed her fingertips against the cover, frowning. She supposed she could stick it in a box of her own things going to archives, but that was not exactly ethical either. If it was discovered, she would be reprimanded for the breach of operating procedure and going against the dean and the university board's expressed wishes. Why should she risk that, especially for someone like Reginald Bushroot, and not just do what she was told?

The memory of her former colleague's sad face, the one she remembered so well from her time spent working with him before he went off the deep end and transformed himself, flickered through her mind. Because it wouldn't be right, Rhoda thought with a conflicted weariness. Whatever had happened, the knowledge itself—forbidden knowledge that some might consider it to be—was not evil.

" _If my research is successful, someday we'll get our nutrition just like plants! We'll be able to snack on sunlight!"_

Rhoda could hear Reginald's voice in her mind like he still stood beside her telling her about it so enthusiastically, only that time her face formed an expression of regret and sorrow instead of the admiring smile she had given him then.

"Someone could take this and make it what it was supposed to be, what he wanted it to be. Not what it…" She faltered as she voiced her thoughts in the empty hallway. "It'd be wrong to just _destroy_ it!"

Her words strengthened her conviction, although it left her with the problem of what to do with the notebook if not destroy it. "But I can't keep it, either. Dean Tightbill said he doesn't want it anywhere it could be associated with the university. If it stays here, someone else will just find it and get rid of it… or worse, want to try the experiments on themselves." She shuddered at that thought. Imagining some inexperienced student getting himself killed trying to give himself "cool powers" with a houseplant and high voltage was not anything she wanted on her conscience either.

 _So what do I do then? Keep it somewhere off campus myself?_ Rhoda shook her head; that did not appeal at all. It was not even her work to begin with, and given her own personal experience with it she did not want reminders of it in her space for very long.

But if she did not keep or destroy it, who could she give it to? It would have to be someone she trusted not to abuse the information or destroy it. She also had her own career to think about; research was competitive and if she was caught giving out proprietary information bearing St. Canard University's name it would be the end of it. Who did that leave, then? Someone like Darkwing Duck?

She supposed that he was at least well-intentioned, if not a bit off-kilter. Then again, Reginald Bushroot was far from Darkwing's favorite individual, either. Assuming she could even find the mysterious masked mallard, Rhoda could not be certain he would understand her reasons for not wanting Dr. Bushroot's research destroyed. The more she thought about it, the more easily she could see Darkwing Duck taking the notebook and destroying it himself despite her protests. No, she decided, there had to be another answer.

Rhoda had just arrived back at her office when the obvious solution struck her. There was someone who would want that notebook, who could rightfully use the scientific knowledge therein, and who could not possibly put it to further ill use—because he had already done that, and more. _Yes, I could send it back to Reginald._ It startled her how easily she considered it, and more so that she did not feel compelled to dismiss the notion right off the bat.

"Well, it _is_ his…"

As Rhoda returned to her desk, her gaze lingered on the part of the room where Dr. Bushroot's desk had once been. Even though the little office had not been damaged when Bushroot sought his revenge on his former co-workers, it too had been remodeled afterward, with new desks put in and the room re-painted, an indulgent expense that Dean Tightbill permitted in the name of putting the past behind them. Despite that, it was still easy for her to recall how it used to look even though those days were long gone. The memory swayed her idea to a firm decision. "That's what I'll do with it, then. I'll get it to him. Then if anyone asks, I can just tell them it's gone."

Deciding that left Rhoda with another dilemma, however. How was she going to get the notebook to Bushroot without risking her own neck in the process? Although he had once professed to love her and to want to marry her, Rhoda imagined that her rejecting him and screaming for help while Darkwing intervened would have cooled his affection, especially after it all ended with him under the blades of a mower. While Rhoda had never wanted to see Bushroot hurt, and especially not killed as she had thought until she had learned otherwise, she also had no idea how he might view the situation, and her. She had been relieved to find out that Bushroot had survived, but she was also glad that he never tried to find her again. But now, as she slid the notebook into her bag and turned off her desk light, she would have to find _him_.

She supposed that would not be too hard. She knew where his greenhouse was—that was where he had taken her when he abducted her, after all—and she also knew that he allegedly still lived on the property at least some of the time. Few were brave or foolish enough to trespass there, and she imagined that the reason police had never staked it out and arrested him was because they were afraid to barge in there asking for trouble.

Rhoda left the office and headed to her car. She decided that the most efficient way to handle it would be to just slip onto Bushroot's greenhouse property and quietly leave the notebook on his doorstep. She would not knock or give any indication that she was there, and by the time he would come out and discover it, she would be long gone. If she was lucky, she would not even so much as see him in the distance before she was out of there and the deed was done.


	2. Chapter 2

It was just a little over an hour later when Rhoda reached Reginald Bushroot’s greenhouse property. It was a large lot for something so close to the city proper, and from where she parked her car on the street it was a short walk to the driveway that led up the hill to the greenhouse. Although it was in a clear area for optimal sun, the lot was lined by a thick grove of trees that occluded the view from the street. Rhoda could have sworn that they had grown larger since the last time she had seen them, and she supposed that was intentional. A super-villain was not very likely to want trespassers.

That gave her pause for a moment as she clutched the notebook. She had left everything but it and her keys in the car, figuring it prudent to be carrying as little as possible in case she had to run. But what was the best approach? Should she sneak in through the trees, or take the direct route up the driveway? Rhoda knew that Bushroot had a direct connection to the plant life; they would probably warn him if she crept onto the property like a prowler. On the other hand, it was just as likely that they would alert him if someone was coming up the driveway. How would he react?

She decided that if she approached looking like someone who had not come for a malicious reason but for a legitimate purpose— which, of course, she had!— it stood to reason that the plants would be more likely to watch than attack. If something happened, she could just say she was there to deliver the notebook, drop it, apologize, swear not to come back, and run away. She was fairly sure that Reginald would have his plants let someone like that go. At least, she hoped he would, just like she hoped that none of the criminal gang she had heard he ran with, The Fearsome Five, were around either.

“That’s certainly a lot of contingencies, isn’t it?” she murmured to herself, trying to steel her nerves. The plan had seemed simple enough in the car, but now that she was actually there, she was nervous. As she came to the foot of the driveway she saw the greenhouse in the distance, its view partially blocked by the hill and the way the drive wound up to it. “It’s not that long a walk, and it’s a nice field… with lots of lovely trees surrounding it.”

 _A little flattery can’t hurt if they’re listening to me, right?_ Rhoda took her first steps onto the property, and to her relief, nothing out of the ordinary happened. There was not even so much as the ruffle of a leaf. Encouraged by that, she continued to walk.

She was about a quarter of the way up the driveway when she first got the sense that she was being watched. At first she tried to dismiss it as nerves or imagination, since she did not actually see any plants moving or anything strange happening. Unfortunately, the feeling did not go away.

A third of the way there she began to hear the rustling of foliage. Rhoda quickened her pace and told herself that it was just the wind. The grass on either side of the drive swayed as it normally would in a gentle breeze, and she could see the trees in the distance also moving. If she had not been on the property of a mutant plant-duck super-villain, she might have taken her time with the walk, for the view was nice and it was a warm summer evening.

The rustling sounds grew louder and closer as she kept going, and with each step she took it became more apparent that what she heard was not just the wind. She tensed and walked more briskly, trying to convince herself that it was animals, maybe birds? There were flowers in the field, and hummingbirds loved those. Or perhaps it was just small rodents scurrying through the grass.

A moment later she was proven wrong. A vine flicked out from the grass on her left side, and when it did, Rhoda lost both her ability to rationalize and think rationally altogether. She shrieked and broke into a run, but she did not get far before another vine came out on the opposite side to block her way. Rhoda screamed again and turned sharply, twisting her ankle in the process. The stylish low heels she had worn to work might have been fine for being on her feet in the lab, but they were not ideal for running away from angry plant life. _Why didn’t I change into sneakers?_ She lamented with rising fear as she tried to get away from a third vine that joined the fray.

Rhoda swatted at one of vines with the notebook and felt it connect with a thud. The vine twitched and then recoiled to strike at her like a snake, coming at her fast. She held up the notebook to try and block it, but that time the vine knocked the notebook out of her hands and onto the ground. Another vine came at her from the other side, making her gasp and wrench away, breaking her stride. Between that and the painful throb in her weakened ankle, she lost her balance and stumbled face forward off of the driveway and into the grass. She barely had time to roll over before the vines— at least six of them, she realized in horror— converged on her.

“No! Don’t hurt me! Please!” she cried out as they wound themselves around her ankles and calves. She grabbed at them to try and pry herself loose, but then they started coiling around her arms, and then her waist. _Didn’t I have a plan for this?_ Her thoughts raced. She could not remember what her plan was in that panicked moment; all that she could think of was that whatever it had been, she had failed to take one significant factor into account when she made it— the sheer foolish stupidity of it.

The vine on her waist wound itself around multiple times, squeezing her like a boa constrictor and making her gasp for breath. Her panicked struggles became more erratic as the other vines bound her arms and legs, leaving her helpless on the grass staring up at the sky. “Please don’t kill me,” she begged as tears clouded her eyes. Finally she remembered what she had said she would do if something happened. “I was just here to deliver that book, I swear! Please believe me! If you let me go, I promise I’ll leave and never come back!”

Her words had no effect, and she felt the vines continue to coil and tighten around her. Rhoda wondered if Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson felt like that in their last moments, and she closed her eyes as she uttered another desperate plea. “Please let me go! I just wanted to give Reginald his notebook back!”

After she said that, she felt an almost imperceptible twitch in the vines holding her, and while they did not stop moving around her, they also did not tighten any further. She could not say why, but she had the feeling that they were communicating amongst themselves about her. Then, without any warning, she was hoisted into the air and the vines— decorative ivy vines, she noticed now— slithered up the driveway toward the greenhouse. Rhoda looked at the building she was approaching with a renewed sense of dread. _So much for getting out of here without running into Reginald._

It did not take the vines long to get her to the greenhouse, where upon arrival one of them snaked out and operated the door latch not unlike a regular duck would have. If she had not been terrified out of her wits, it would have been a fascinating sight. The vines then carried Rhoda inside and brought her into the main chamber of the greenhouse, where Bushroot had once tried to mutate her into a plant-duck. A moment later Rhoda spotted him, looking much the same as he had the last time she saw him, his back to them while he worked at a lab bench. The animated fly trap called Spike was beside him— smaller than she remembered, or maybe that was just the distance— and Rhoda could only stare and brace herself for the inevitable as he turned at the sound of the vines’ intrusion.

“What?” His familiar voice sounded impatient as he turned around with a not-too-pleased look on his mutated features. Rhoda shuddered; although his altered form was no longer a shock to her, it struck her that she had no idea of just what he was capable of. The Reginald Bushroot she once knew was not someone she would have ever imagined doing the awful things that he had done the last time she saw him, let alone all of the criminal indiscretions added to his résumé since then.

Bushroot did not realize who the vines had brought in from a distance, and only spoke to his ivy plants at first. “Oh, you caught another one selling Quackerware?” He set the flask in his hands down on the bench in a huff and peered more closely as he approached. “Or is it an Avion lady this time? Well, there’s no cream for this skin condition, miss—” Bushroot cut himself off with a gasp as he recognized his trespasser. “Rhoda?” He all but tripped over his roots running over to her. “Rhoda, is that you?”

The frightened Rhoda nodded and squeaked out a meek “yes.”

Bushroot gawked at her incredulously for a moment, and then snapped his gaze to his ivy plants. “Set her down. And then tell me how she got past the daisies.” The vines did as he requested and lowered Rhoda to the greenhouse floor in a heap, but although they loosened their hold on her, they did not release her arms and legs.

Looking up at Bushroot, Rhoda asked, “Daisies?”

“My giant daisies are my first security measure. They’re supposed to watch the perimeter and keep intruders out. Didn’t you see them?” Bushroot frowned at his vines. “Where are they?” One vine pointed to the southwest wall of the greenhouse, where through the clear paneling a compost pile could be seen with what looked to Rhoda like three sunflower-sized daisies sprawled out on it in a sleeping position. “Oh, so they’re hitting the fermented compost on guard duty again, huh?” His beak twisted into an irritable scowl. “Pain in the asters! Wait until I get a chance to give them a dose of manure they won’t forget!” Bushroot composed himself and then turned his attention to Rhoda. “Now, what to do with you…? Normally when I get trespassers, I threaten to mulch and compost them.”

Rhoda struggled to sit up with the vines still on her and looked up at Bushroot, who was looming over her in a way that made her even more fearful. “Please don’t hurt me, Reginald!” She met his blue eyes with a desperate and imploring look. “I never meant—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t hurt you, Rhoda, even after how you hurt me.” Bushroot’s tone was sharp and thick with emotion as he cut her off. “Even the prettiest rose has its thorns, but I wouldn’t rip it out of the garden just because one cut me.”  
Remembering his previous statement, she cast an anxious glance at the compost pile. “You won’t…?”

“No. Besides, I don’t mulch anyone the first time. Not even the Quackerware salesmen… though sometimes they really tempt me! And no one’s been dumb enough to show up a second time except Darkwing Duck.”

Rhoda tried once again to stand, but the vines on her limbs limited her movement too much. While Bushroot noticed, he did not say or do anything about it as she spoke. “I never wanted to hurt you. I was frightened, but…” Rhoda swallowed as she realized that she felt the same way now, captive in his greenhouse once again. “But I never wanted to see you hurt, or killed. I just wanted to get away and—”

“Get away from me because I scared you?” Bushroot leaned over her, his blue eyes blazing with unresolved emotion. “Do you really think I’d have hurt you?”

“You were trying to mutate me against my will!” She shrank back after she said it, and hoped that she had not inadvertently made her situation worse. She was really in no position to be argumentative.

Bushroot stared at her for a moment, but instead of becoming angry or defensive, a sorrowful expression formed on his mutated features. “I know you were afraid. I know now that I should’ve explained things better, but there just wasn’t time. Not with Darkwing Duck butting in and ruining everything.” He sighed and met her apprehensive gaze. “But I am sorry I scared you, Rhoda. I never wanted you to be afraid of me. If I’d thought you’d be in any danger, even for a second, I’d have never put you on that machine. I knew you’d be fine. It didn’t even hurt when I did it to myself, really.” Bushroot paused, and then added as an afterthought, “Well, okay, there were a couple of shocks and funny sensations, but nothing all that bad. I was sure you’d be happier with it once it was all over, and then we’d be happy together.” The smile that had lit up his face for a moment while speaking then faded. “I got a little overzealous, I guess. I’m sorry. I really did think the whole plant thing would grow on you… like it did me.”

Rhoda stared back at him, unsure of what to think. While he seemed sincere enough about his desire to not see her harmed, it seemed that she and Bushroot had very different opinions on whether being turned into a plant-duck qualified as that. Summoning what courage she could, she decided to try and reason with him. If he was willing to admit to some wrong doing on his part, perhaps he could also be convinced to just let her leave quietly. “I told you I didn’t want to be a plant, Reginald. You didn’t seem to care, or even listen to me. Of course I was scared.” She met his eyes. “What else could I think?”

“I know you were upset, but, well, I thought you were just speaking out of fear. Like jitters or something,” Bushroot said with a wistful look. “I figured once it was all done and you were transformed and got to feel and see what it was like, and we were together…” He reached out and touched her cheek for a moment, brushing the soft feathers with the tip of his leaf-like finger with surprising tenderness, before reality set back in. “But obviously I was wrong about that.” He straightened and stared down at her, eyeing her intently. “Or was I? Why did you come here, anyway?”

“I came to bring you something,” Rhoda said, trembling a little as she answered. “A notebook of yours from the university. It turned up in my, well, actually, our old office. I thought you should have it.”

“A notebook? One of my old lab notebooks?” His green face formed an expression that Rhoda vaguely recognized as the same puzzled look he would get back when they worked together and dealt with something—usually a decision of Dean Tightbill’s—that made little or no sense. “What, are they only getting around to archiving that stuff now?” He paced in front of her, somewhat suspicious. “But why’d you bring it to me? That doesn’t make any sense. It’s against the SOPs, for one. And why didn’t you just mail it?”

Rhoda shrugged a little with the vines still hanging on her arms. “I didn’t think super-villains had valid mailing addresses.”

“I guess you missed the mailbox at the end of the driveway.”

Feeling more stupid than ever, Rhoda stared at the floor. “Guess so.”

Smiling, Bushroot leaned over Rhoda. “Maybe you just wanted to see me?”

“Actually, I… I wasn’t planning on running into you,” she admitted in a small voice.

“At my own greenhouse?”

Rhoda stared down at the floor, uncomfortable. “I thought I could just leave it and go.”

“Oh.” The hurt note in Bushroot’s voice was unmistakable. “Well, it looks like you were wrong, both in your assumptions about super-villain mailing addresses and security systems.” He paced in front of her and then stared down at her with a pointed look. “So where is this notebook?”

“Probably still somewhere on your driveway where your ivy attacked me,” she said, glancing longingly at the door through which she had been brought in.

Bushroot beckoned over his shoulder. “Spike! Come here.” The fly trap, who had been standing behind Bushroot watching everything, skittered over to his side, making Rhoda even more nervous. Even though he was smaller than she remembered, he still had a nasty-looking bite. “I want you to go and fetch the book she said she dropped,” Bushroot said, pointing to the door. “Go get it, boy.”

Spike gave an exuberant nod, and then dashed out the door with his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth while Bushroot returned his attention to Rhoda. He made a small gesture with his leaf-hand, and the vines around Rhoda’s arms and legs relaxed their grip. Gingerly she pulled her legs close to her body and rubbed them, while Bushroot offered her a hand to help her stand.

“Thank you.” She brushed herself off once she was back on her feet.

“You’re welcome. You’re not the kind of intruder I want to scare off.” He smiled at Rhoda in a way that reminded her of how he often used to look at her, albeit with a normal duck face and not a mutant plant-duck one. Back then she had not realized the magnitude of the feelings behind his sweet smiles. Oh, she had known that he had somewhat of a crush on her— that much had been obvious, from the way he had always been so willing to help her out in the lab to how he would bring her coffee made just how she liked it whenever she was stuck at her desk crunching data— but she had never imagined that it ran so deeply. At the time she had considered it harmless, if not a bit flattering and endearing. Sometimes she had even wondered if shy Dr. Bushroot would ever work up the nerve to ask her to dinner or drinks after work, but never in a million years had she anticipated how he _would_ eventually demonstrate the depth of his affections.

“It’s good to see you again,” said Bushroot, snapping Rhoda out of her thoughts. “You look good, too. Well, except for the grass stains on your dress there, but that’s my fault, I guess. Sorry about that. The ivy plays a little rough.”

“A little.” Rhoda smiled nervously. Although she was now free from his vines, she still did not feel all that much safer alone with him. “I suppose that’s what I get for coming onto a super-villain’s property without an invitation, though.”

Before Bushroot could answer, Spike returned with the lab notebook in his mouth. He ran over to his master, clearly proud of himself, and Bushroot reached for the notebook. “Good boy, Spike. Now give me the book.” It seemed that Spike thought that Bushroot wanted to play tug, however, and he did not let go when Bushroot pulled on it. Instead he dug in his teeth and pulled back.

“Spike!” Bushroot chastised, “Spike, let go!”

Spike ignored his command and tugged harder, making playful growling noises as he did so.

“Let go!” Bushroot continued to pull on the notebook, to no avail, while Spike shook his head, shaking Bushroot along with him. “Spike! Bad Spike! I told you to drop it!” He pulled as hard as he could while the fly trap let out another little growl and started backing up in the opposite direction. Frustrated, Bushroot dug in his root-heels. “Spike,” his voice took on a plaintive whine, “Come on Spike! Just let go, please?”

Rhoda felt oddly reassured at the spectacle. It seemed that for all Reginald had changed, a part of him was still the same as ever.

Eventually Bushroot won the battle with Spike and managed to wrestle the notebook free from his mouth, although not without casualty. “Bad Spike!” he repeated, waving it angrily. He looked at the notebook, which now had several fly trap bite-marks on the cover and dripped with wet strings of drool that he wiped off in disgust. “When I tell you to get me something, it generally means I want you to let me have it!” Spike lowered his head at the admonishment while Bushroot sighed. “It didn’t need to be three-hole punched, or six—eight—nine,” he muttered, counting the final tally of tooth marks.

Bushroot glanced over at Rhoda as he opened the notebook. “It’s a good thing you don’t have to explain the condition of this thing to anyone.” He began to browse the pages, and right away he recognized his old research notes and what experiments they pertained to. He paused and gave Rhoda a curious look. “So why did you bring this to me rather than just archive it?”

“Because they wouldn’t let me archive it,” she explained. “They wanted me to destroy it.”

“Destroy it?” Bushroot stared back at her in surprise, and she nodded somberly.

“That’s what they did with all of your work. I didn’t even know until recently, but that’s what they did.” Rhoda frowned, still disappointed in the university board’s decision. “The university doesn’t want to be associated with you and your… actions.”

“You mean they threw it all out?” Bushroot’s voice took on a high and incredulous note. “Unbelievable!” He threw his vine arms up in the air. “Did you hear that, Spike? Apparently, once you’re deemed a mad scientist, your work means nothing.” The fly trap just panted happily alongside his master in response; he only cared that Bushroot was no longer displeased with him.

“No wonder nothing ever seemed to get accomplished around there,” Bushroot continued to rant. “Between attitudes like that and Dean Tightwad pulling funding on anything that he doesn’t think has a high enough profit potential, it’s amazing anything out of there gets published at all!” He stopped and gave Rhoda a knowing look. “Although I saw you managed to get one out there recently. Nice job on that, by the way.” He smiled, and then added, “I’d love to get my leaves on your famous melons sometime. I can just imagine what I could do with them.”

“Uh, thank you.” Rhoda felt rather awkward as she wondered if Bushroot’s tilted phrasing, unlike the dean’s, was intentional or not. “It’s nice to hear that my honeydews made such an impression on you.”

“I’ve always been fond of the Cucumis melo breed,” Bushroot said with a nod. “Nice and sweet, and their aim is much better than watermelon or pumpkin.”

Suddenly Rhoda felt all too aware of the fact that she was still alone with a wanted mutant super-villain and not just a former colleague with a crush on her, and she glanced at the door. “I haven’t researched that aspect.”

Bushroot did not notice her anxiousness, for he was busy browsing the pages of his notebook again. “So this is the only thing they didn’t get rid of?”

“I think so.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I took some time off while they were fixing the building, so I don’t really know what all they did. Your things were gone when I came back. I just assumed they’d been archived and the equipment distributed to whatever researchers needed it.”

“Oh. I hoped that my equipment went to you,” he said wistfully, closing the notebook to meet her gaze. “You at least got to keep my centrifuge, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, _that_ I kept,” Rhoda said with a faint smile that shined through her anxiousness for a moment. “I fought just as hard as you did to get that purchase order approved, and I didn’t want that relic we had in there before. That belonged in the archaeology department to be studied, if not the dumpster.”

“Did they say what they did with the stuff in my desk?” Bushroot asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know,” she admitted. “Like I said, it was all gone when I came back. I suppose they either sent your personal things to your family, or threw them out too.”

A dark look flashed through Bushroot’s blue eyes, and Rhoda wondered if she should not have said that. “Well, I haven’t really seen my family either, so I guess it doesn’t matter,” Bushroot said, his tone growing thorny. “I have all I need here, and anything else… well, I can get it if I really want it.” As he finished speaking, his gaze settled on her in a way that made her feel even more uncomfortable.

Rhoda took it as her cue to leave, while he seemed to be in a reasonable mood and like the Reginald Bushroot she used to know rather than the super-villain he had become. “And now you’ve got your notebook and its information back, too.” She smiled at him and edged backwards toward the door. “So I won’t impose on you any more, Reginald. Thank you for being… understanding.” She cast a wary look at the ivy vines that had captured her earlier, which had since slithered off into a sunny spot on the floor.

Bushroot set the notebook down and looked at her with disappointment shining in his eyes. “You’re not leaving?”

Feeling even more nervous as he looked at her that way and stepped closer, Rhoda backed up faster. “I, yes, I really should…”

“No, stay! I insist.” Bushroot made a small gesture with his right hand, and the snoozing ivy immediately came to life once more.

“I can’t!” Rhoda blurted out in a panic, and bolted for the door. She did not get there before two tall hibiscus plants stepped out of their pots and blocked her way. With a gasp she turned around, only to see Bushroot still calmly walking toward her with a tangle of writhing ivy vines flanking him on both sides. “Please, Reginald,” she pleaded. “Don’t…”

“Oh, we aren’t back to this, are we?” Bushroot asked as his plants surrounded them. “You still think I’m going to hurt you?” He seemed genuinely hurt by the insinuation.

Rhoda cast a wary glance at the ivy. “You aren’t letting me go.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m going to hurt you! It just means I want you to stay here,” he smiled, “with me.” He took Rhoda’s hand in his and beamed at her with the same determined and love-struck look he had worn back when he had abducted her. She froze at his touch, filled with dread that he would finish what he had started back then, with no Darkwing Duck to intervene this time.

Bushroot was not deterred by her hesitance, however. “Last time we saw each other, things got screwed up. There were complications, misunderstandings, and things were too rushed, so it all fell apart,” he said sadly. “I was heartbroken after that, you know. My dreams for us—not to mention my body—were mulched in one terrible shot. But I thought that was just how it was meant to be, so I moved on.” His blue eyes looked intently into her green ones. “But I never found what I was looking for in the plant world, either. Plenty of friends, but none like me. None that could be my bride, my companion, the love to share my life with, to grow old and put roots down with.” He sighed and smiled at Rhoda with renewed hope. “Now I know why, now that you’re here, now that _you_ came to _me_! It was meant to be after all.”

“Reginald, you’re reading too much into this,” Rhoda argued softly. “I just wanted to do the right thing with your work. You put so much into it that it wasn’t right to sit by and let it—”

He tightened his hand around hers in an affectionate squeeze. “Because you still care about me! Because you couldn’t forget about me, just like I could never forget you!” Bushroot beamed at her in adoration.

“It’s not quite like that.”

“How is it, then?” With his plants still guarding the exit, Bushroot led Rhoda back into the heart of the main chamber. He motioned to a pair of hedges that quickly rearranged themselves to form a sturdy frame for a loveseat-sized couch, which was completed when a banana tree donated two of its large leaves to form the back and seat of it. “This time we’ve got all the time we need to talk about things, so have a seat. Get comfortable.”

A hibiscus nudged Rhoda toward the leafy couch, and she sat on the edge stiffly. “You can’t just keep me here indefinitely.”

Bushroot just looked back at her with a look that said, _Can’t I?_

“People will notice I’m gone. They’ll be looking for me,” she continued, trying to appeal to his sense of reason.

“Sure, maybe Monday morning at work. But not right away.” A knowing smile crossed Bushroot’s beak. “Unless you don’t still live alone like you used to, when you’d ask me if I minded giving you rides to and from work when your car broke down? Not that I ever did mind, of course, but you know that.”

“I have plans for the weekend,” Rhoda informed him.

“You do? Oh, that’s too bad. I guess you’ll have to cancel. But I promise we’ll have fun to make up for it!” Bushroot patted Spike, who had come over to his side to watch his master with their guest, while Rhoda frowned at them both.

“I have a boyfriend, you know. A very big one,” she asserted, folding her arms. “He’s built like the Exterminator.”

Bushroot chortled. “I hope he’s a better actor than you are… and he is, for that matter,” he said, making a face. “Did you ever see the third movie?”

“I’m serious!” Rhoda argued. “He’ll be furious!”

“Of course he will,” Bushroot said with a wry look. “I’d be mad, too, if my girlfriend went straight to another man’s house right after work on a Friday night.” He paused. “Actually, I tried to mow down Darkwing for something kind of like that when it came to Posy, although that was out in a field and she ran from my home, and I don’t think it was Friday… but still, you get my point.”

Rhoda was not sure what unnerved her more, the fact that he was so blasé about committing attempted murder over— was that his alleged potato bride?!— or the fact that he was shrugging off the threat of an angry boyfriend built like a linebacker like it was nothing. She had hoped the latter might at least intimidate him into backing off, and although it did not seem to be working, she persisted anyway as her options were rapidly running out. “I mean it, Reginald. You don’t want to make him mad.”

“And he doesn’t want to make _me_ mad! If you’ve got such a big tough boyfriend, why didn’t he come with you to protect you from the evil mutant plant-duck super-villain, huh?” Bushroot asked, calling her bluff. “Was he too much of a pansy to face my pansies?” He leaned closer. “Or did you not tell him you were coming here because you don’t trust him? Either way, that doesn’t sound like a very healthy relationship to me.” He straightened and folded his vine arms. “ _I’d_ never let you face certain danger without doing everything in my power to protect you.”

“And who’d protect me from you?”

Bushroot pouted at her outburst. “Aw, come on now, Rhoda, don’t be like that,” he chided, joining her on the leaf couch. “How’re we ever going to work things out if we don’t talk first?”

She turned away from him. “There’s nothing to work out. There can never be anything between us, Reginald.”

“Why not?” Bushroot asked, and when he received stony silence as an answer, he frowned. “Oh. It’s still that whole ‘you’re a mutant plant-duck, it’ll never work’ thing, huh?”

Rhoda turned back toward him with a glare. “That, the fact that you’re a super-villain, you abducted me twice, _and_ you tried to violate my body.”

“Hey! I did not!” Bushroot held up his leafy hands in protest. “I’d never do that! I’m a perfect gentle-plant. I always keep my leaves to myself!” He pouted. “And I only abducted you once. This time you came to me.”

“I mean when you tried to force your mutation on me,” she clarified coldly. “And I only came into your greenhouse because your ivy brought me in after it hog-tied me in your driveway.”

“ _After_ you came onto my property in the first place, of your own choice I might add,” Bushroot pointed out. “The ivy was just doing its job. As for trying to turn you into a plant-duck like me, I thought we went over this already.” He sighed and softened his tone, beseeching her with hopeful eyes. “I meant it when I said I was sorry about that. Look, I promise I won’t ever do that again unless you ask me to, okay?”

Rhoda took in his apologetic words with a measure of uncertainty. “All right.”

Bushroot took her hand again and searched her eyes. “So does this mean you’ll give me a chance?”

The naïvely hopeful way he looked at her, coupled with the gentle manner in which he held her hand, seemed ludicrously incongruous with his reputation as a mad scientist plant-duck super-villain. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She stiffened as she felt his leaf-thumb caressing the feathers on the back of her hand. “‘Abducting’ or not, you’re still holding me here against my will.”

“Only until I can convince you that staying is worth it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “So you’re only holding me captive until you convince me that I don’t want to leave?”

It was not clear whether her sarcasm was lost on him or he just chose to ignore it. “Exactly.” Smiling, Bushroot brought her hand to his bill and gave it a gentle kiss. “Please give me another chance, Rhoda. Let me prove to you that I’m not the terrible monster the world thinks I am.” He looked longingly into her eyes and added, “That you think I am.”

With a sigh, she replied, “You could prove that quite easily by letting me go home.”

“I could,” Bushroot admitted, “but we both know that you’d never come back.” A wistful frown formed on his beak. “You wouldn’t want to come back and see me, or be my friend like you used to, let alone anything else. Maybe you might tell someone that asked, ‘Oh he’s not so bad, he let me go once.’” His expression darkened further. “If you’d tell them at all. It’s not like you’re even supposed to be here, bringing me a notebook you were supposed to destroy, and not even telling your _big tough boyfriend_ ,” he enunciated the words with heavy sarcasm, “about it.”

“Well, if you don’t trust me and I don’t trust you, then it can’t work anyway, can it?” Although Rhoda was fairly sure that logical arguments were a lost cause at this point, she still felt compelled to try. The Reginald Bushroot she once knew had not been an unreasonable duck.

Bushroot scooted closer to her on the leaf-couch and reached for her. “But you can trust me. I promise. I won’t lie to you.” His words and tone urged Rhoda to turn around, but she found it hard to meet his gaze when she did, for he watched her with such intensity that she could hardly bear it. There was a mixture of sincerity and desire in his eyes that frightened her, because while she knew he was capable of terrible things, she also did not truly believe he was a monster. She had never thought that, not when Darkwing Duck came to investigate Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson’s murders, not when he had attacked Dean Tightbill, and not even when he had her strapped to a table in that very greenhouse. Even afterward, when she had heard accounts of Bushroot’s crimes on the news or in the papers, Rhoda had always thought sadly of what had become of the Reginald Bushroot she knew rather than what a terrible thing he was.

She shifted where she sat, moving her hand until he released it. “Tell me the truth then, Reginald. If you’re not going to try and… and do what you did last time, what are you going to do to me?”

“To you? Nothing!” Bushroot exclaimed with exasperation. “I don’t want to hurt you or torment you. I want you to _like_ being with me, and with all my plant friends. I thought we could talk, and once we were past all this bad stuff, that we could catch up, and I could show you my plants and my experiments, and you could tell me about yours.” He gave her a hopeful look. “And then maybe we could have dinner or something, like a date, and go for a romantic walk in the moonlight and… well, you get the idea. Nothing bad.”

“And then what?” Rhoda asked. “You’ll let me go?”

Bushroot sighed again. “And then I hope you won’t _want_ to go. But if not, there’s always tomorrow,” he finished on an optimistic note.

“Tomorrow?” she repeated, dubious.

“Well, I’m being realistic. You’ll probably need a little more time than just tonight to get past things. Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.”

Rhoda swallowed anxiously. “How much time?”

Bushroot thought for a moment, and then stood up. “A weekend? How about it? You promise to stay here with me this weekend and give me a chance, and I promise not to do anything that you don’t want me to.” He smiled at Rhoda. “And that’ll prove that things could work, if we try. What do you say?”

She glanced at the door. “What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll be very disappointed.” A sullen frown spread across Bushroot’s bill. “And even though I still won’t hurt you, I can’t promise you’ll make it to work on time on Monday. Or Tuesday.”

“I see.” Rhoda’s expression also soured, but Bushroot was determined to change it. He reached down and tipped her beak toward his face, looking at her affectionately.

“Aw, cheer up! You’ll see, it’ll be worth it.”

“But Reginald, even if I wanted to, I can’t just stay here all weekend, just like that, without planning for it. I mean, I don’t even have a change of clothes! I left my car parked on the street where there’s no overnight parking, and— and where will I sleep?” She gave him a sharp look as she rose to her feet beside him. “I don’t want to hear that you want me to share your flower bed,” she said staunchly. “I’m not the kind of girl who does that on the first date.”

“I know that!” Bushroot was indignant, even though he was encouraged by the fact that she used the word “date” rather than call it a hostage situation. “Don’t worry; I can make you any kind of bed you want with the help of these guys,” he gestured to the plants all around them, “from a nice little hammock between the two palms to a fluffy flower mattress with puffy petal pillows.” He took Rhoda’s hand once more and led her through the center of the greenhouse. “If there’s anything you need, just ask! If you get hungry, I have all the fresh fruit and salad you could want, or if it’s something else, I’ll get it for you. My plants are the ultimate delivery guys,” he bragged before adding, “Oh, and don’t worry about your car. I’ll take care of that. I’ll send the maples to pick it up. My daisies actually can drive, but they’ve had a bit too much of the compost to get behind the wheel.”

He led her to the back of the greenhouse, where there was a separate room with actual walls on two sides that held various shelves and two doors that looked like they led into closets or other small rooms. There was also a door on one of the greenhouse-paneled walls that led outside. Surprisingly, Bushroot took her to that one first and opened it. The step out into the fresh, cooler air was a relief to Rhoda, and she noticed that she could see a clear way to the street from there, a route she could use to make a run for it if she wanted to. Although she considered it for a moment, she also realized that she would not get far before Bushroot’s plants stopped her, especially in her work heels. Her ankle was not throbbing anymore, but she was not sure it was up to a sprint like that.

Rhoda glanced over at Bushroot, who was staring at some of the trees near the road. _I wonder what he’d do if I did run?_ She knew all too well how dangerous he could be when antagonized, and she imagined that shattering his hope and trust into pieces by bolting would certainly do that, not to mention hurt him. Even as anxious and frightened as she was, she did not relish that idea. Plenty of others had already hurt Reginald Bushroot, and if she added herself to those ranks, she knew that the kind botanist she once knew would only slip that much farther out of reach, replaced with the plant-monster who chillingly fit in with a criminal gang called “The Fearsome Five.”

Bushroot was unaware of her conflicted thoughts, and he turned toward her, startling her out of them. “There they go!” The plant-duck smiled proudly and gestured to the trees he had been communicating with. Rhoda watched as they uprooted themselves and lumbered toward the street, a rather incredible sight even from a distance, heading to where she had parked.

“What are they doing?”

“Getting your car. Watch.” Bushroot pointed, and he and Rhoda watched the trees weave through the other trees in the grove that bordered Bushroot’s property, only their canopies still visible as they reached her vehicle. Their leafy tops disappeared as they bent down, and a moment later they reappeared, moving back in their direction. “You won’t get any tickets to spoil your weekend with me,” the grinning Bushroot said, “and I don’t even mind if you park on my lawn.”

“Thank you,” Rhoda said, more out of politeness than anything else.

Bushroot was oblivious to that, however, and took her hands in his. “Anything for you, Rhoda my dear!” He caressed her hands tenderly, gazing at her in a way that seemed both grateful and happy. It made her feel strangely glad she had chosen not to run. There was a better way to resolve this, she thought, one that would get her safely out of there without hurting and embittering him more.

They watched the trees lumber back across the field carrying her car. They set the vehicle on the ground and re-rooted into the soil, securing Rhoda’s vehicle snugly between them. “See, I told you these plant powers have their advantages,” Bushroot boasted with a smile. “Not only can’t they ticket it, they can’t even _see_ it from the street.”

Rhoda knew that the placement of her car was deliberate; if nobody saw it, then nobody could question who it belonged to when it did not move for a couple of days, especially so close to property belonging to a known super-villain. Also, with it wedged between two bulky trees, there was no way she could get to it and drive away before Bushroot was ready to let her leave. “I guess it’s a good thing that city driving has me used to parallel parking,” she remarked as the trees reverted to their inert state.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have them bring it right to the door for you when it’s time. And as a bonus, tree valets don’t even have to be tipped,” Bushroot told her cheerfully. He slipped a vine arm around Rhoda’s waist and led her back to the greenhouse. She did not push him away or flinch, much to his delight, but his touch did leave her feeling anxious inside.

“Where are we going?”

An adoring smile that reminded Rhoda of how he used to look at her back when they worked together lit up Bushroot’s plant-duck face. “To start our romantic weekend together,” he said, and closed the greenhouse door behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

“So what would you like to do first?” Bushroot asked Rhoda once they were back inside the greenhouse. “The night is young. The sun hasn’t even set yet!”

“Well, it is close to the summer solstice.” She smiled in a forced attempt to relax. If she had no choice but to stay there with him, she figured she might as well try and make the best of it. “Being a plant you must like that, all the long days.”

Bushroot nodded. “Oh, yes! The sunlight gives me so much energy. My research was successful for that, you know,” he told her with pride. “While I didn’t anticipate the whole mutation aspect of it, I don’t have to eat if I don’t want to, as long as I have natural light. That’s all I need, well, that and water of course. And a little fertilizer helps too.” He gave her a funny look. “Do you know how weird it is to actually crave something that smells like that?”

“I can only imagine.”

“But don’t worry, I wouldn’t feed you that!” They stopped in front of a workbench that had a number of flasks and vials on it, as well as the notebook she had brought him earlier. “Speaking of which, what would you like for dinner? You must be getting hungry by now. We’ll be dining in, but I’ll get you whatever you want.”

Rhoda placed a hand on the bench. “Before we worry about that, there are some things I think we should talk about.” She cast a nervous glance around the greenhouse. “And I think I’d just like to sit for now.”

“Oh, okay.” Bushroot led her back to the leaf-couch and gestured for her to sit down. “I bet those shoes are killing you after working all day in them, huh?”

“Not to mention running for my life in them while I was trying to get away from your vines.”

“Sorry about that,” he said with a contrite look. Then, before she could say anything else, he knelt in front of her and removed her right shoe. She regarded him anxiously, but he smiled back at her in reassurance. “It’s okay. I know it’s a dirt floor in here, but the grass is pretty clean except for the dirt it’s growing in, and there aren’t any nasty bugs. Spike makes short work of them.” He glanced over at the fly trap, who was busy helping himself to a drink from the hose by arcing the stream high up in the air and catching it in his mouth as it fell.

Despite her mood, Spike’s antics also amused Rhoda, and she was reminded of how he had played tug with Bushroot with the lab notebook earlier. He seemed like an altogether different creature than the vicious snapping plant that Bushroot had brought into the research lab back when he had abducted her. “He’s a handful, isn’t he? But you’re fond of him,” Rhoda said, looking between them. “Just like you’ve always been with your plants. You care for them almost like children.”

Bushroot looked over at Spike and shook his head. “Maybe more like pets. Spike’s advanced for a plant, but he’s more like a dog. He’s not all that smart.” As if to illustrate the point, Spike started playing with the hose nozzle to make the spray higher, and he tipped himself back so far with his mouth open that he fell back on what would have been his rump had he not been a plant. “But he’s loyal,” Bushroot said. “For a long time he was the only friend I had.”

A silence fell between them, and Bushroot looked up at Rhoda. It was then that she noticed that he was rubbing the sole of her now bare webbed foot as they talked. It was not exactly unpleasant, although it was rather awkward once her attention was called to it. She cleared her throat and quickly shifted to remove her other shoe. “Thank you.”

He did not give her the chance. “Oh, allow me. You relax. It’s the least I can do to make up for the ivy,” he insisted, and took hold of her other foot, caressing it the same way once her shoe was removed. “If you want, I have a garden pond here in the greenhouse that you could soak them in. The water would probably feel nice.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m fine.” Rhoda closed her eyes, feeling both nervous and guilty. While it was delightful to have her foot rubbed, it also felt wrong to let him do it, and she pulled back her foot in a sudden move. “Please… stop doing that.”

Taken aback, Bushroot let go. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No. It’s just... it’s too much, Reginald. I appreciate you trying to be thoughtful, and it’s sweet, but it’s too…” She caught the crestfallen look in his eyes and tried to phrase her words as delicately as possible. “I just don’t want to lead you on.”

“Oh.”

The emotion in his voice was tangible, and Rhoda felt a twinge of regret. “I don’t want to get your hopes up for something that may not happen.”

“I didn’t mean to come on too strong.” Bushroot forced a sheepish smile as he stood up in front of her. “It’s funny; I always thought you were so surprised when I came for you last time because I’d been too subtle all along.”

Rhoda stared back at him. “You weren’t all that subtle.”

Surprised, Bushroot replied, “I wasn’t?”

“No.”

“Really?” He sat on the leaf-couch beside her. “You knew I liked you? I mean, not just liked you, but liked you? How’d you tell? What gave me away?”

Rhoda tried to think of the best way to answer. The truth was that it had been obvious to her and likely to everyone else in their department as well, but she was not sure it was a good idea to say such. “Well, you paid quite a bit of attention to me, Reginald.” She gave him a kind smile. “More so than most. Just because you weren’t over the top like,” she paused as Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson’s names caught in her throat, “some others, I still noticed. You never brought anyone else their coffee every day. Not even some of the prettier students that studied with us.”

“No student could’ve ever compared to a woman like you.” He gazed at her with a love-struck expression. “Besides, flirting with a student would’ve been very inappropriate, not that it ever stopped our old lab-mates.” A frown crossed his bill as he brought up the individuals that Rhoda had avoided mentioning. “It was bad enough that they drooled all over you every day.” He added on a horrified note, “I never came off like _them_ , did I?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” she assured him. “I never came away from a conversation with you wishing that I could stuff you into the nearest fume hood.”

“So, what’s it like there now?” Bushroot asked. It caught her off guard as it was not something she anticipated that he would ask about.

“It’s, well… it’s quieter,” Rhoda said after a moment. “Dr. Aveshine is much nicer company than those two were. But now I’m getting a new office all to myself, actually. That’s how your notebook turned up, cleaning it out for the move.”

“All to yourself?”

Rhoda nodded. “Dean Tightbill gave me a promotion.”

“That’s great! If anyone there deserves it, you do,” Bushroot congratulated her with a warm smile.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it. Your research has always been top-notch. It’s about time someone recognized it, and you, instead of the tail feather-kissers.”

A wistful look crossed her features. “I used to think the same thing about you.”

Bushroot blinked with surprise. “You did?”

“I always admired your work and your goals. You thought outside the box so much more than others. I often thought that if only you’d been more assertive, you’d run that place.” Her voice took on a somber tone. “Little did I know that you’d actually run it over, and with an angry maple at that.”

“If you want to get technical, that was a white oak, and he never really _ran over_ Tightbill,” Bushroot pointed out, which led Rhoda to stiffen in her seat again, and the two of them lapsed into silence. “Let me guess,” he said after a pause, “that’s one of the things you want to talk about. What happened before I brought you here last time.”

Rhoda eyed him sternly. “Before, and after.” She frowned. “You committed murder, Reginald. That’s not just some little thing to get over.”

Sighing, Bushroot said, “I know that. I don’t expect you to… well, I don’t expect you to approve of it or condone it. I know you don’t. But you have to understand why I did it… don’t you?”

“Understanding why you did it doesn’t make it any less wrong.”

“What’s done is done, wrong or not!” he replied defensively. “Like I said, I don’t expect you to like it or absolve me. I know better than to expect anyone to do that. But please don’t judge me! St. Canard has enough of those ready to pass sentence on me as it is.” He groaned. “Why do you even want to talk about this? Are you worried that I’ll snap and choke you to death in vines next or something?”

“I… no.” The statement surprised her a little even as she said it, for had she not been worried about that very thing just a little while ago? What reason did she have to believe that she was exempt from his temper? _Because he was hardly in love with Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson like he is with you,_ a voice inside her answered. _The only way you’d drive him to something like that would be if you broke his heart. Would you do that?_

Bushroot stared back at her, searching her eyes for a sign of the empathy and understanding he so desperately craved. “I know what it must look like when you think about the things I’ve done. You don’t get the prestigious title of ‘super-villain’ by being a typical Junior Woodchuck, after all. But it’s not as cut and dried as you might think.”

“Then explain it to me. Explain all the things that have nothing to do with revenge or the situation with the university or me. Things like robbery and threatening people with plants, and stealing money and valuables and even a whole neighborhood’s Christmas presents!”

“Okay, the Christmas thing was petty, I admit. But do you know what happened to me on Christmas Eve? I went to the mall to try and find some nice gifts for my plants— you know, the only companions I even had to celebrate with— and some nasty hog woman and her brat saw past my coat and incited a mob to beat the tar out of the ‘plant monster.’ So yeah, maybe I overreacted,” Bushroot said flatly, “but forgive me if I don’t think the winter solstice is the most wonderful time of the year anyway. Especially right after a Thanksgiving where my parents and sister made it clear that I was the diseased branch of the family tree they’d just as soon see pruned off.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “I know how cruel others can be, but…”

“Yes they can,” Bushroot said as a dark and bitter gleam filled his eyes. “But at least one thing this ‘plant-monster’ can do is fight back.”

“So that’s why you do all these terrible things? Because you can, and they hurt you first?”

“I rob places because it’s the simplest way to get what I need. I’m not independently wealthy, and it’s not like anyone’s going to hire me if I ask for a job. I’m a mutant plant-duck. The public wants to run me off with pitchforks when I show my face, even when I’m minding my own business.” He sighed. “The most honest work I could get is supplying the potheads downtown with a steady cash crop, and we both know how legal _that_ is. Although I will say that the druggies and criminals are at least willing to respect you for what you can do _for_ them and _to_ them.”

Picturing Bushroot skulking around the worst parts of the city with types she never would have imagined the Reginald Bushroot she once knew associating with brought up another question that Rhoda had to ask, although she was not sure she wanted to hear the answer to it. “So is that how you got involved with the Fearsome Five? Through your own… illicit activities?”

“Those of us on the fringe of decent society have a few things in common. When Negaduck made the offer, I saw no good reason not to take it.”

“Negaduck.” Rhoda shivered at the mention of the notorious super-villain. “Public enemy number one. And you willingly associate with him?”

“He’s actually number two, but regardless, the public hasn’t done me any favors lately, and someone else who has it in for Darkwing Duck is a good ally as far as I’m concerned.”

“Oh. The old ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ adage?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call Negaduck a friend exactly, but he’s got his points.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” Rhoda said, clearly not convinced. “What about the rest of them, though? Megavolt? Liquidator? Quackerjack? They’re crazy, ruthless—”

“—super-villains,” Bushroot finished for her with a rueful smile. “Like me.”

“Are they like you? Really?” She looked at him as though she did not want to believe it. “A crazy toy-maker that uses his childish inventions to commit crimes, a maniac with an electrocution fetish, and a water monster?”

Bushroot shrugged. “Is a plant-monster much different than a water monster? Because I can tell you for a fact most of the city doesn’t think so. Want to see chaos? Let me and Buddy stroll down Main Street undisguised at high noon. We won’t even have to so much as sprout a shade tree or tap a fire hydrant before everything goes to compost in a hand-bucket.” He paused for breath while Rhoda continued to listen. “And Megavolt? Yeah, he’s crazy, and talks to light bulbs. But I talk to plants, so who am I to judge? Quackerjack is as loony as the day is long, but you know, he wasn’t a criminal until he lost his job and his life’s dream either.” He gave her a pointed look. “And there are plenty out there that wouldn’t call me sane. Even my own sister doesn’t. She told me so to my face, that I just ‘need help.’ So yes, you could say that the others in the Fearsome Five are like me, and I’m like them.”

“So you want to be like them? You’re okay with that?”

“I don’t want to be anything but what I am, but I don’t want to be hated because of it,” Bushroot told her, his voice raw and emotional. “You don’t know what it’s like, Rhoda. To be a freak, to be different, to have everyone hate you just because of what you are.” He looked away as his bitter thoughts consumed him.

“Back when I was still a duck I used to think I got the short end of the stick, being a nerd and going bald before I was thirty, and being so much shorter than pretty girls like you. But at least I had my brains going for me. People don’t judge research by anything but the data. Science is much fairer that way than other careers… at least when you don’t have spiteful morons stabbing you in the back every chance they get.” His blue eyes narrowed into an angry glare. “But now… now nobody will even talk to me! They look at me and run away. They call me a monster. So if I’m stuck being the monster, I might as well live like one.”

It was Rhoda’s turn to sigh. “Oh, Reginald… maybe they think you’re a monster because you killed two ducks and tried to kill a third, and then went on a crime spree for a year afterward. Maybe they’re afraid of you because they’ve seen your face on the news and they know what you’re capable of, not because you’re green and have leaves instead of feathers.”

“Come on, Rhoda,” Bushroot countered in a thorny tone. “You were there when I went to the lab after I ran my experiment on myself. You saw how they treated me. No one was going to take me seriously after turning into this, and we both know it.” A flash of pain flickered through his eyes. “You even cringed away from me yourself.”

“I was shocked,” she told him. “But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t have accepted you or stood up for you. In fact, I did stand up for you to Darkwing Duck.”

Bushroot’s bill set into an irritable and stubborn glower. “Don’t even get me started on him.”

“My point is that you don’t have to be a criminal.”

“Uh, the taxes on this place aren’t going to pay themselves, you know. And believe it or not, I tried growing my own money tree once, but it didn’t work out so well.”

“But there are other things you could do,” Rhoda said encouragingly. “You’re a scientist, Reginald, an incredibly innovative one. If you really wanted to, you could turn over a new leaf. I know you could. You can find your niche and do some good for the world, like you always wanted to.”

“I think this _is_ my niche. There’s nothing I can do to make the world accept me now. Unless…” He gave her a hopeful look as his voice trailed off. “Unless maybe I had a reason to try something new? Someone who’d stand by me and convince me not to give up trying to fit in to a world that has no use for me… someone who could maybe even love me?”

His words left her feeling uncomfortable, especially with the way he stared at her with such adoration and desire. “I’d rather see you do it for your own sake than mine,” she said, trying to steer the conversation in a more motivating direction. “Don’t you want to be happier than this, all alone and bitter all the time?”

“Of course I do. Being with you would make me very happy.” Bushroot leaned closer and touched the side of Rhoda’s face with a leafy finger. “And I’d do just about anything to make you happy and want to be with me.”

“I can’t be with a hurtful and selfish criminal.”

Although her words stung him, Bushroot took them as a challenge rather than a condemnation. “Then I’ll prove to you that I’m not.”

“I’d like you to.” She met his eyes. “I’d like to believe that you’re not.”

Encouraged by her soft words and the fact that she had not pushed him away when he touched her, Bushroot leaned in close and touched his bill to Rhoda’s in a hesitant kiss. It was too much for her, though, and she jerked back with a start and turned her head aside, unable to look at him. A part of her had almost considered not breaking away for an instant, and that frightened her. However kind or convincing he was being, he was still the same Reginald Bushroot that had abducted her a year ago, and who was holding her against her will right now! What on earth was she thinking?  
“I’m sorry,” Bushroot started to say, but Rhoda cut him off.

“Don’t.” She felt his gaze heavy on her, and when she looked at him she could see that he was distraught. “Please,” she added in a softer tone, swallowing back her anxiety. “Don’t push me. It’s one thing to put the past behind us, but it’s another to move so fast…”

“…toward the future?” A hint of hope shone through the disappointment in his voice.

Rhoda sighed; she had her work cut out for her. “I promised you a chance, Reginald. That’s all. If we can rebuild our friendship…” Her voice trailed off as he watched her with almost palpable anticipation until she added, “We’ll see.”

Bushroot’s expression softened to an accepting smile. “I understand.” He paused, and then said, “It’s nice to hear you say I was your friend.”

“Why wouldn’t I say that?” she asked. “I thought we were friends when we worked together. I always enjoyed working with you.” A fond smile curled the edges of her bill at the memory. “We had so many great discussions and interests in common. We liked to read the same journals and books, and we watched a lot of the same shows on television. I knew that if anyone saw a new show on the Discover-It network, it would be you. Not to mention how nice it was to have someone to vent to when certain individuals got on our nerves…” Her voice trailed off as she realized too late that she should have left that last bit unsaid.

Bushroot in turn bit back a retort that as far as he knew, hardly anyone had liked Dr. Gary and Dr. Larson except for those whose tail feathers they had kissed. But since he knew going there would only sour the conversation, he redirected it back to a more pleasant subject: him and her. “Well, you never called me your friend before. I mean, you never even called me by my first name until after I was… after I was gone from there.”

“Oh, that was just habit from the workplace culture. You know how it is. Everyone’s so formal at the lab. The only ones who don’t routinely go by their titles are the students who don’t have them. Well, and Warbrin, but he’s the kind of duck who enjoys ruffling feathers.”

“Warbrin Aveshine?” Bushroot asked, recognizing the name from his time working at the university.

Rhoda nodded. “Yes. But what I mean is that just because I called you ‘Dr. Bushroot,’ it didn’t mean I didn’t think of you as a friend. After all,” she gave him a knowing look, “you always called me ‘Dr. Dendron’ and you obviously thought of me on more intimate terms.”

He gave her a sheepish look. “I never wanted to come off as presumptuous or disrespectful.” A wistful look filled Bushroot’s eyes as he thought back on opportunities he now saw in hindsight that he had never had the courage to take when it came to Rhoda. It made him wonder how things might have been different if he had. “Rhoda, can I ask you something?”

She nodded.

“Maybe this is stupid to ask now after everything that’s happened, but…” He pursed his bill anxiously, hoping that what he was about to ask would not make things worse. “Back then, if I’d asked… would you have gone out with me?”

Rhoda mirrored Bushroot’s rueful look with one of her own. “I used to wonder if you’d ever ask me to dinner or to meet you after work. There were a few occasions where I half expected you to, actually. Like that the one time you treated me to dinner at the hotel we stayed at in Duckburg for the seminar we attended for work there.” Her smile broadened for a moment. “It was sweet how you walked me back to my room afterward, even though we were on separate floors.”

Bushroot’s eyes brightened as he remembered that night, which had been just over two years ago now. “Oh, it just seemed like the nice thing to do. We were having such a good time, and I didn’t really want to go back to my room just to be by myself, but I couldn’t think of anything to suggest that wouldn’t come off the wrong way.” He gave her a meaningful look. “I wanted to ask you to come back to my room with me, just to watch TV or something, or talk, or go with you to yours, but…”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Rhoda confided.

“Really?” His green face lit up like the morning sun.

“Reginald, I knew you weren’t the type who’d use that as a pretext for some sleazy come-on. So yes, I probably would’ve visited with you for a while. We might’ve had a nice time.”

“You probably wouldn’t think that if you knew how much I wanted to kiss you when we said good night.” Bushroot looked down with a guilty smile on his beak while Rhoda began to feel uncomfortable again.

“We shouldn’t go there. Thinking about what might’ve happened, but didn’t… it’s not a good idea. It’ll just hurt more.”

“You’re right,” he said, looking at her with regret shining in his eyes. “I really screwed up with you, didn’t I?” He sighed. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Rhoda.”

The sincerity in his voice struck her, and despite the fact that she was in a position to point out that keeping her there like he was doing now was a screw-up of equal magnitude, she did not feel compelled to throw it in his face right then. Instead she felt sadness, compassion, and a small bit of hope for Bushroot, hope that if maybe he comprehended the scope of one such mistake, others might follow.

When she did not give an answer, Bushroot looked up at her with a glint of wetness in his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

He took her hand in his, and as his leaves caressed the back of her fingers, it occurred to Rhoda that his promise could be used to make him let her go if she pushed the issue. She chose not to, though, for while she did not want to be his prisoner, she also did not want to lose what progress she had made in getting through to the Reginald Bushroot she once knew and was sure the mutant plant-duck holding her captive could still be. Instead, she gave him a kind smile. “Why don’t we get some dinner now, Reginald?”

Bushroot nodded. He supposed that no answer as to whether or not she would forgive him was better than a flat out “no” or a too-quick lie to placate him. At least it meant that she was considering it, and that was good enough for the time being. He let go of her hand and stood up. “What would you like?”

“Whatever you have that isn’t fertilizer is fine.”

“Okay.” Bushroot glanced around thoughtfully. “I have lots of salad and fruit right here. But if you want something more substantial, I could always send my plants out for pizza.” He paused. “Mmm, you know, I haven’t had that in a while myself.”

Rhoda’s stomach rumbled at the mention of pizza, reminding her that she had not eaten since lunchtime. “Pizza sounds delicious.” She then gave him a curious look. “You can eat pizza?”

“I can eat a little of most regular food. Just not too much at once, and I don’t need it to survive. I still like what’s good every now and then, though!” He gestured to a couple of potted trees nearby that climbed out of their soil and came over to him. Bushroot nodded to them a couple of times, which Rhoda realized must be a part of his telepathic communication to them, and then he made some vague hand gestures before dismissing them. Once they were on their way, he turned to her and smiled. “They promise twenty minutes or less just like the delivery guys. I, uh, didn’t specify any toppings though, because they really can’t tell pepperoni from sausage, and anything we don’t eat, Spike will anyway.”

When she realized that he was sending plants out to swipe food for her benefit, she frowned. “You’re having them steal it?” She supposed she should not have been surprised, but at the same time she could not help but feel disappointed that he was committing a crime five minutes after he had made it seem like he sincerely wanted to try turning over a new leaf.

Bushroot frowned at the disapproving note in her voice. “Delivery guys won’t come to this address. Besides, would it make that much difference to you if I had them pay for it with stolen money?” He paused and then tried to reassure her. “They won’t hurt anyone. I told them to just grab the food and go.”

“Right.” She let out a drawn out breath. She supposed there were worse things to take him to task over than pilfering pizza. At least it wasn’t committing murder or participating in a hostile city takeover with a criminal gang.

“Can I offer you something to drink while we wait? I’ve got fresh fruit juices of all kinds, and a few cans of Koo Koo Cola.” He let out a guilty chuckle. “I still drink that stuff sometimes, even though it’s probably worse for me as a plant than it was for me as a duck. Or, if you’d like, I could wine and dine you with a little style… well, aside from the pizza; I know _that’s_ not exactly high class gourmet fare,” he said with a wink. “I’ve got some homemade dandelion wine in the back. Most gardeners hate dandelions, but I love them. They have such an unfair reputation. They’re very useful plants, medicinal with lots of health benefits, and they make an incredible wine to boot.”

Rhoda considered whether or not it was wise to drink anything with alcohol in it while she was stuck alone with Bushroot, but she decided that she knew her limits well enough that she did not need to be concerned about having only a glass or two. “Dandelion wine, hmm? That sounds nice. I’ll try some.”

Bushroot grinned. “Great! I’ll go get it and I’ll be right back.” He took off, leaving her in the main chamber to look around and take in the variety of plant life all around her. There were an incredible number of rare and exotic species in there, and Rhoda was reminded once again of just what a genius Reginald Bushroot was when it came to botany.

He came back a moment later with a corked green glass bottle in one hand and two champagne flutes and a corkscrew in the other. Rhoda had no idea why he had such things in his greenhouse at all, but to say that Reginald Bushroot had become eccentric in the last year would have been an understatement. Bushroot set the bottle down on one of his work tables and set about removing the cork. “Oh, I hate these things,” he muttered on the second attempt to get it out. The third try was the charm, though, and the cork came out with more force than he anticipated. The snap of it popping free sent him reeling back in a comical manner that left Rhoda smirking in spite of herself.

Once Bushroot regained his footing, he filled one of the flutes and handed it to Rhoda. “Sorry I don’t have a proper wine glass for you, but I don’t have much in the way of this kind of stuff here. A mutant plant-duck doesn’t throw a lot of cocktail parties.”

“It’s all right.” Rhoda picked up her glass and noted the distinct color and fragrance of the wine. “Did you make this yourself?”

“I learned how to do it years ago,” Bushroot said as he poured his own glass. “One of my favorite courses in college was about edible and medicinal plants native to this area, and one of the things we read told us how to make it.”

She took a tiny sip. “It’s different… but good.”

Bushroot beamed at the compliment. “Thank you! It’s a little strong, though, just to warn you.”

Taking that as proof that he had no underhanded intentions in giving her the wine, she relaxed and took a second sip. “Does alcohol affect you now the same way it did as a duck?” she asked, curious.

“Not quite. It metabolizes a little differently, but too much of it will still make me kind of clumsy and dizzy because of the water imbalance it creates in my system. It’s really unpleasant, and even slight dehydration is pretty serious as a plant-duck. Where a regular duck just gets thirsty, I start wilting.” He took a swallow of the drink. “But like the food, a little won’t bother me. It actually takes more to affect me now than it did as a duck because of the way my body processes it.”

“That’s incredible,” Rhoda said, leaning back against the work bench. Bushroot noticed that she seemed to be eager for a place to sit, so he sprouted a tulip from the ground to form a chair for her to sit in at the bench. He motioned for her to have a seat, and she went ahead and did so. “And so is that.”

“It takes the green thumb of a plant-duck to get a tulip out this late in the season,” he said proudly, and then grew a seat beside her so they could continue their conversation. “It’s nice to have a guest like you to entertain here.”

A silence then fell between them, the elephant-ear in the room of her being a guest more by coercion than anything else being something that occurred to them both and that neither of them wanted to mention. Instead, Rhoda glanced toward the nearest wall and noticed that it was finally getting dark outside, reminding her of how much time had passed and that before long, she would have to face another uncomfortable question— where she would sleep, if she _could_ sleep, given the situation. “It’s getting dark,” she said after a moment. “What’s that like for you now? Does it bother you as a plant, given your relationship to sunlight?”

“You could definitely say it’s made me more of a morning person,” he said, and then continued on a more serious note. “Darkness doesn’t bother me— well, unless it’s totally dark, since I don’t see any better than a regular duck in it— but I have more energy when it’s light out.” He sighed. “I sure don’t like the short days in the winter, either. It’s bad enough when it’s cold out, but having so much less light… I hate it. Not to mention that as a Lyceum nycanthropus, I’m much better suited to summer weather like this.”

“I can imagine.” She swirled the wine in her glass around before taking another drink. “Do you sleep like a duck, or are you awake all the time?”

Bushroot shook his head. “No. I still sleep and dream. That’s one reason I have Spike and all of my watch-plants. I need rest and can’t be on my roots all the time.” He paused. “But I sleep less than I did as a regular duck. Mostly in the darkest hours, when my energy is at a low anyway.”

“I see.” Rhoda took another drink, and they lapsed into silence again until Bushroot’s plants interrupted them by thundering into the greenhouse with their branches loaded down with pizza boxes. Her eyes went wide behind her glasses as she counted at least five of them. How much did he think she was going to eat? “That’s… a lot of pizza.”

“When they promise they’ll deliver, they deliver!” Bushroot directed his leafy helpers to set it all down on one of the other benches. “It’s okay, though. It won’t go to waste. Whatever doesn’t get eaten before it spoils will just go in the compost bin to break down into future fertilizer. Recycle, recycle, recycle!”

“It’s good not to waste,” Rhoda agreed, and then gave him a thoughtful look as the seed of a suggestion came to her, one that might nudge him into thinking in the right direction. “But did you ever think of maybe doing something better with it?”

“Like what?”

She pursed her bill as the aroma of the fresh pizza reminded her again of how hungry she was. “There are a lot of under-funded homeless shelters and soup kitchens in St. Canard, you know. Since you won’t eat it all, maybe you could consider leaving it at a place like that.” She paused, and then added, “Anonymously, of course.”

A somewhat puzzled look crossed Bushroot’s face, as though such a thing had never occurred to him. “You want me to give my stolen pizza to the homeless?”

“Well...” she paused, for it did sound a bit ludicrous put that way. “I’m sure it’d be appreciated, and while it doesn’t make your taking it right… it does at least do a little positive along with the negative.” She looked at the pizza boxes. “It’s just something to think about. You’d be making someone happy.”

He considered her suggestion and then smiled. “You’re right. I mean, I guess even if no one knew it was me who did it— because they’d probably toss it thinking I poisoned it or something if they did— it’s better than letting it rot. I don’t really _need_ to compost it all. I’ll do that.” Bushroot opened one of the boxes and offered it to Rhoda. “Looks like onions and sausage on this one. Is that okay?” He then peeked in a second one, and then a third. “Oh, this one’s plain… and that one has pepperoni and mushrooms…”

“Pepperoni and mushroom sounds perfect,” Rhoda said, and finished the last of the wine in her glass.

“Here you go, then!” He placed a slice on a wide leaf-plate that one of his plants donated to his wining and dining cause, and then picked up the wine when he noticed her empty glass. “Do you want more?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Sure!” He refilled her wine and then helped himself to the plain pizza. “Ooh, I forgot how good this place’s stuff is. I used to order from them all the time.”

“Mmm-hmm,” was all Rhoda said in response while she devoured her own slice in her hunger. The salt and grease from the pizza left her feeling rather thirsty, so she downed her second glass of wine quickly as well. It was only as she was taking her second pizza slice, still hungry, that she noticed she was beginning to feel light-headed. _The alcohol in the wine must’ve hit me hard on an empty stomach._ She hoped that what she had already drunk would not put her in a bad state, and after swallowing the pizza in her mouth, she looked back at Bushroot. He was smiling at her as though he was in heaven having a pizza date with the girl of his dreams.

“Is everything okay?” he asked when he saw the look on her face.

“Oh… yes.” Rhoda was not about to voice her fears about being taken advantage of, which, she supposed, were a possibility even without the alcohol. Once she fell asleep, what was to stop him from…

“Are you sure?” Bushroot leaned closer, concerned. “Is it not agreeing with you? Oh, no! The _last_ thing I wanted to do is get you something that’d make you sick!”

Rhoda forced a smile, although now her head was beginning to spin. “No. I’m fine, really. Just…” She pushed the wine glass and the bit left in it away. “I don’t think I should have any more of this. Do you have some water instead?”  
Bushroot’s worried look changed to one of understanding. “Oh, the wine got to you, huh? I’m sorry. I’ll get you some water right away!” He was up on his roots in a flash, and he returned a moment later with a full glass of water while Rhoda struggled with her wooziness. She took a few more bites of pizza in the hopes that it would help, but instead it just turned her stomach.

“Thank you.” She sipped at the water and then closed her eyes. “What’s _in_ that stuff?”

“Nothing bad, I promise.” He put a leafy hand on her shoulder. “But, uh, it might’ve gotten a little more potent as it aged. Just drink the water and maybe try to eat more if you can, and it’ll pass.”

“I haven’t felt like this in years,” she confessed, resting her forehead on her hand as she leaned on the lab bench. “Do you know when the last time I got… drunk… was?”

“When?” His blue eyes lit up with curiosity.

She chortled, causing a lock of brown hair to fall over the hand on her face. “At a New Year’s Eve party a few years ago. One of my friends convinced me to go out and celebrate with her and some of her other friends downtown. I underestimated how strong some of the mixed drinks were and… ugh. It hit me all at once. I laughed at everything and I’m sure I made a complete fool of myself! And the morning after…” She groaned. “I felt so horrible that I remembered why hangovers are so universally hated.”

Bushroot patted her on the back. “Some B-complex vitamins help with that. I learned that in college.”

Rhoda glanced up at him, surprised. “You never struck me as the drinking and partying type.”

“I wasn’t,” Bushroot admitted, “but I had a roommate who came home drunk a lot. He used to pop those vitamin pills with a glass of water before passing out. When I looked into the science of why it worked, it made sense.” He shrugged. “Last I heard, he was in med school. Wouldn’t it figure that he was the one to become a respectable doctor while I became, well, this?”

“Life can throw some crazy turns at us sometimes.” A wistful smile formed on Rhoda’s beak, and she leaned more heavily on the table. “But you were well on your way for a while, Reginald. You had such wonderful ideas.”

“Heh.” His voice took on a rueful and bitter note. “Those and the notebooks they’re written in are worth about whatever the going rate of firewood is these days, according to St. Canard University.”

“Don’t let them discourage you anymore,” Rhoda said, her tone insistent through its now distinct slur from inebriation. “Not everyone thinks that.” _That’s why I’m in this fine mess, after all,_ she thought.

Bushroot lifted his leaf-hand, resting on Rhoda’s shoulder, up to stroke her hair. “Not everyone is as kind as you are.”

She was too out of it to realize what mixed signals she was sending by not rebuffing his touch, and oblivious to that, she closed her eyes. She felt sleepier with each passing moment. “You haven’t given everyone a chance yet. Don’t give up.” She leaned more heavily on her arm as drowsiness overcame her. “Please don’t give up.”

The earnestness of her words struck a chord in him. With his leaves still entwined in her hair, Bushroot leaned close and said just before planting a soft kiss on her head, “I won’t.”

Rhoda never heard him or felt it, though, for she had already drifted off to sleep.


End file.
